Eastwood has been one of my favourite film characters for many years: on screen and behind the camera, he has built his meditation on society around his highly stylised image. With his limits as a character actor, he does not expand his register to psychological complexity or extremity. (He’s no De Niro.) He incarnates an ideal for the male psyche: lonely, autonomous, definitively freed from the mother, withdrawn from any question, from any cry of distress. Within the script and the images, this dull, nearly mineral, fully sterile mass nevertheless becomes a wondrous sound box for the romance of unexpressed emotions. The eternally adolescent boy with his chaste, timid and excessive but vague desire.